The Lies We Tell the Grieving

There’s a strange etiquette around death and grief. A hush that falls when the topic comes up, followed by a scramble to say something comforting, or at least something that sounds like it belongs on a sympathy card.

I’ve lost count of the well-meaning lies people told me in the weeks and months after Kahlia died.

“She’s in a better place.”
“At least she’s not suffering anymore.”
“Everything happens for a reason.”
“You’re so strong.”
“She’d want you to be happy.”

Each one, a little dagger disguised as comfort.

Let’s unpack that, shall we?

“She’s in a better place.”
Better than here? With her family, with her friends, with dreams unfinished and laughter still in her lungs? Spare me. And even if she is somewhere better, she’s not with me and that’s heartbreaking. She’s not on holiday, she’s dead and I’ll never see her again.

“At least she’s not suffering.”
Sure, her suffering is over. Mine has only just begun. Grief doesn’t get cancelled out by logic. It doesn’t soften because someone means well.

“Everything happens for a reason.”
This one stings the most. If you can explain to me what grand cosmic reason justified the death of my 24-year-old daughter, I’m all ears. But until then, maybe just... don’t.

“You’re so strong.”
People say this when they don’t know what else to say. What they don’t realise is that I didn’t choose strength. I didn’t get up with purpose and resilience. I got up because the alternative was staying in bed forever, and I knew she’d haunt me for not going on.

“She’d want you to be happy.”
Maybe. But right now, I’m not. And I refuse to force joy to make other people more comfortable with my grief. Happiness doesn’t come on demand. Not when your world has collapsed. Not when someone you love has stopped breathing.

Here’s the real truth:
People are uncomfortable with pain they can’t fix.
They want grief to be neat. Digestible. Timed.
They want to put you in the “she’s doing well” box and get back to small talk.

But there is no script that makes this better.
There is no sentence that brings her back.

If you don’t know what to say to someone who’s grieving, here’s a revolutionary idea: say that.
Say: “I don’t know what to say. But I’m here. And I’m listening.”

That’s the truth we actually need.